


Santa Monica

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dreams, Episode: s14e12 Prophet and Loss, Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, First Time, I believe in us, M/M, season 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: 14x10-13subtext, flashback, and alternate endings.The boys are on their way to the Pacific Ocean to make Dean and the Ma'lak box go splash.It may appear that Sam persuades Dean to give up his plan. In reality, Sam’s outburst convinces Dean to confront his darkest fantasy.





	1. Your Stupid Game

**Author's Note:**

> Betas make us better.
> 
> Many thanks to CheRun for the marvelous beta work. I can't even count the ways she's made this better.  
> And to Winterwolke for genius tech support. 
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: (Apparent Major Character Death)

_Under a dust-grey sky, Sammy stepped out onto the porch beside Dean. He tied a bandana around his neck, stretched up on his tiptoes to peck his big brother's lips, then he pulled the scarf over his mouth and nose._

_Even with his face covered, his smile was plain as he twisted his ring and said, “Green.”_

 

***

 

Dean sinks further into his void. Feeling this empty is a high price for such short-lived relief. The afterglow is barely a sparkle before it fades. Sweat-drenched and drained, Dean slumps on the edge of the bed. His elbows dig into his thighs as he gouges his eyes with the heels of his palms.

Burgers with Donna had hit the spot; this was a lost cause. Dean scrapes his tongue over his teeth, failing to remove the waxy residue of lipstick from his tongue.

This girl’s room is tiny. There’s barely room for her double bed. But it’s better than a Ma'lak box. Dean had built that iron coffin himself and laying in it made a casket seem roomy. 

Why is Dean here?

It’s a question he asks himself.

After confessing his fear to “Father” Sammy, he’d waited for his brother to fall asleep and

slipped out of the room. Anything would be better than another night terror: trapped inside the Ma'lak box, screaming for Sammy, powerless to stop his cell phone from sputtering to absolute darkness.

With his fingertips still blood-caked and aching, Dean had hunted down the nearest bar and flung his sexiest smile at the sluttiest co-ed.

Cut to: squeaky bed. Inadequate body. 

Dean inhales fresh air while he can. He coughs out the poisonous haze of budget perfume. Monique. Monica. Something stirs behind him and he scoots an inch further down the bed. 

Dean should be kinder. Her inadequacies aren’t her fault. 

Speaking of inadequate, Sam deserves an explanation, an apology, but what the hell is Dean going to say? His original plan was to leave what Sam saw unaddressed and take it into the ocean with him. Now that Sam has joined the long march to the Pacific, Dean’s got to say something. 

Lacquered fingernails creep down Dean’s arm, drawing out a shudder. 

“Will you bring me a cup of water?” 

Whether it’s her voice or the mere mention of water - when soon enough he’ll be under miles of it - for whatever the reason, Dean shakes her off. He stands and doesn’t fake another smile.

He could spare a “good night,” or a “thanks.” Usually, he’d kiss the girl goodbye and leave her with a sweet memory. After all, you never know when you’ll be back in these parts again. Well, that won’t be happening, so why bother? 

He’s spent his adult life playing this stupid game: feigning obsession with women, food, and speed, when all he wants is always right there. Sex slakes his thirst like a sip of whiskey in the desert is better than nothing, and far from enough. 

Dean steps into his jeans. The girl calls his name, but he can’t bear to look at her. At first, she tries soft words in a siren’s voice. Dean ties his boots and she spews innocuous curses: the kind that are meant to hurt but never do. 

Dean turns his key in the ignition and peels out. 

Fifteen minutes later, he loiters outside of his motel room, nose wrinkled at the funky evidence of his ill-advised exploits. Guts groaning empty threats. He hasn’t eaten anything for them to return to sender, but he should have at least showered. 

What if Sam smells her? Will he ask? Will Dean tell? 

Fuck it. If Sam scents the girl or finds a hickey, Dean can add this to the ‘splaining he has to do. He’s not going to sleep in the car on his second to last night on earth. There will be cramped sleeping spaces for him soon enough.

 


	2. Lonely and Dreaming

Dean eases the door open and crosses the salt line. He sighs in relief to find Little Brother Sleeping Beauty snoring with a deathlike calm settled around his bed. 

Dean glides through the room like a shadow. If Sam wakes and inquires about the second shower, Dean can blame it on night sweats. And if Sam wakes, Dean will talk. He’ll slice open his guts and spill them on the floor, steaming and stinking as they are.

But Sam sleeps through Dean’s entry, his undressing, and the hour-long under the scalding spray. Dean washes until his skin pink and raw and his fingers ache. It is, after all, the most sensitive tissue. And Dean’s most sensitive issues swim around his head: Death. Love. Sex. Sam.

Dean brushes his teeth again, but echoes of that woman cling to his mouth: sea salt with a bitter aftertaste of regret. When he’s clean enough and nearly refreshed, he drops the towel over the hook, sags into his pajamas and sneaks back into the room.

Standing between their beds, Dean ruffles his hair, flicking a drizzle of water onto Sam’s face. No response. Dean sucks his teeth and plucks his little brother’s ear. A feeble swat and a growl. Dean chuckles. He could be a dick and shake him awake, but sleep is such a rare treat for Sam since he became Chief Camp Counselor to the trainee hunters from Apocalypse World. Dean doesn’t have the heart to rip it from him. His crap can wait until morning. 

Dean settles on his own bed. For a moment, he studies the bloody lines he’d scratched on the wall during his nightmare of clawing at the box lid. Some of his battered fingernails will likely fall off tomorrow. But there have been good dreams, too, like owning that bar and hanging out with Pamela.

The dream that Sam saw isn’t a fantasy or a nightmare.  It was one of Michael’s psychic manipulations. Sam needs to understand that. Dean will explain when Sam wakes up. In the meantime, he should claim some shuteye, too. In a few hours, he’ll be back behind the wheel.

But hard to sleep while he’s being a freak, staring at Sam. He just can’t stop himself. If Dean’s last name had been Swan and he’d awoken to find that freak show, Edward Cullen, staring at him all night, that trilogy would have ended with a swift slash of his machete.

Dean is aware of the problem, but he can’t switch off the weird.

Sam’s brow furrows. Dean kneels between the beds, raises a hand to wipe away the concern with a ghost-light touch. Sam’s face smooths again. Dean leans close enough to inhale his warm sleep smell and wonder at the deep, rhythmic breathing like he did so long ago at Sam's crib side.  

Back when it was normal to pet his brother’s silky hair. Sam stirs again. Dean quits with the touching and sits on his bed. 

Hours pass, sleep is a no-show. Dean’s eyelids are like lead. The first rays of dawn threaten at the window. He yawns. A door closes in the parking lot. Early risers continuing their journeys.

Sam shifts and Dean enters stealth mode, slipping his feet under the covers, closing his eyes moments before Sam murmurs, “Dean?”

Meanwhile, the cowardly fraud who waited all night for this moment, responds with a bogus snore. Sam drags himself out of bed and goes to the can.


	3. Shake Away This Disease

Behind the wheel, black road unfolding ahead: this has always been Dean’s highest point of power. If he talks while he’s driving, he can steer the conversation. So, after a deep breath of air infused with Sam’s shampoo, he dives in.

“Hey, listen, Sam. About that second dream —”

Dean’s throat acts as a net, catching the words so he can choke on them. He coughs and starts again. 

“Can you, just, not?” Sam says.

Dean’s mouth falls open, but the syllables don’t make it out alive. Inside the car falls silent enough to appreciate Baby’s rumble.

It’s a rare day when Sam cuts Dean off. Besides the urgency of the matter, Dean’s inner Alpha growls at the insolent interruption. It’s Dean’s damn car. He’ll talk when he damn well pleases. And Sammy’s cheeky ass can tuck and roll onto the pavement if he doesn’t like it.  

But the fact is, Dean isn’t ready to spit out his confession, just like Sam doesn’t want to hear it. 

So, when Sam pulls up a homicide report and says, “Listen, I’m pretty sure I found us a case”

Dean repeats, “A case?”

Because Sam is doing them both a favor by changing the subject. 

“Yeah.”

“You know this trip isn’t about finding a case,” Dean says glancing over Sam’s shoulder to view the details.

“I know, I know, but it’s on the way.” Sam reads from his tablet, “Fort Dodge, Iowa. And if we can help, then shouldn’t we?”

“It’s on the way.” 

Dean’s shoulders fall, muscles loosen.

“Maybe,” he says, although he’s already sold. “Yeah. One last case for the Winchester boys.”

  
  



	4. Walk Right Up to a Brand New Day

Sam’s got beer, so it must be a party. After all, they won this one. The psycho prophet is vanquished. Donatello is back on the proverbial good foot.

The irony of the firstborn sacrifice is not lost on Dean. Neither is the cruelty of the god who’d send these instructions to Alvarez, Donatello, Moses or anyone else.

Dean knows firsthand about the bullet Donatello dodged: the torture of being trapped inside his own mind, between life and death. Dean also knows the unique humiliation of having his baby brother walking around in his ugliest fantasy. He’d tried again, in the car, to ask what Sam remembers from their childhood. Sam had shut down the conversation again.

But now Sam wants to celebrate, so Dean lifts a can.

“No rest for the self-destructive.” Sam scoffs.

“I’d call this a win.” Dean takes his first swig. It’s not the greatest beer on earth, but it’ll do. Drinking with Sammy is always good. “Kind of nice going out on a high.”

“Going out being the operative phrase.”

“Sorry.”

“How sorry are you?” Sam is stuttering a lot these days. “All these years, our entire lives, after I’ve looked up to you, learned from you, copied you. I followed you to hell and back, are you sorry that all of that means nothing now.”

Sam is talking like Dean asked to be Michael’s sword. Those are just the bullshit cards in his hand.

“Who’s saying that?”

“You are,” Sam says, voice rising. “When you tell me I have to kill you. … We’re the guys who save the world. We don’t just check out of it.”

Now Sam is pushing when he knows Dean never learned how to turn the other cheek. He’s acting like he’s the only one under stress, but when Dean is under the sea, Sam will go back to nannying his hunter-babies.

“Sam, I’ve tried everything. Everything.” Dean grits his teeth to keep his anger in check, but spittle lands on Sam’s cheek. “I got one card left to play and I have to play it.”

“You have one card today. But we’ll find another tomorrow. But if you quit on us today, there won’t be no tomorrow.” Sam’s whining grates Dean’s nerves. “You tell me you don’t know what else to do. I don’t either, Dean. Not yet. But what you’re doing now is quitting. I mean, look what just happened. Donatello never quit fighting, so we could help him because he never gave up.

Sam puts his can on top of the car. Good. He’s going to give himself a time out. That’s the right move because right now he’s kicking the hornet’s nest in the center of Dean’s chest.

But Sam doesn’t walk it off. He pokes himself in the chest and says, “I believe in us, Dean.”

Well, that makes one Winchester.

Of course, Dean sees the uncalculated blow coming. Sloppy as it is, Sam’s fist strikes Dean’s face like a meteor.

“I believe in us.”

The next one Sammy throws, Dean blocks.

“Hey hey hey hey.”

Dean’s face buzzes with pain and an unwelcome urge to fucking cry. Blood mingles with the beer on his tongue as Sam jerks him into a rough embrace. Sam’s anger has always come in squalls. He’ll get pissed and then all the fight blows out of him in one gust.

“Why don’t you believe in us, too?”

This is why Dean didn’t tell him in the first place. What is he supposed to say? Leave me alone, Sam. I want to die. Dean doesn’t want to die. He wants to believe they can solve it. The last thing he ever wants is to be the reason Sam hurts.

“Okay, Sam,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

But Sam’s not ready to let go. He clings while Dean replays the brunt of Sam’s message, delivered in the Winchester native tongue of violence.

Dean can even pretend this outburst means more than it does. Maybe Sam found out about the girl. In reality, Sam rolls his eyes, but he never begs Dean to stop sleeping around, like Dean wishes he would.

Or maybe the punch is for the jacked up fantasy. Dean has that one coming.

Truth is, Sam is talking about this Ma'lak box shit show.

“Maybe Billie’s wrong,” Dean says to halt the gears in his head. “But I do believe in us.”

Their third wheel enters right on time. It’s a good thing Castiel shows up. Dean adds, “I believe in all of us.”

That’s a little less awkward.

Of course, Dean loves Castiel. Cas is family. But Castiel doesn’t wreck Dean, and define him the way Sam has done from the first time he wrapped fat little fingers around Dean’s thumb. Castiel is family, but Dean was put on this earth to love and protect his Sammy.

“Now, you heard me,” Dean says. “Let’s go home. Don’t hit me again, okay?”

He pats Sam’s face, collecting little brother tears on his slowly healing fingers.


	5. Sleep Walk Dance

Reclaiming the artifacts from that thief was business as usual. Their family reunion was … anything but. The most exhausting part has been the hope. It’s too heavy to bear for long. Much easier to accept a cruel fate.

On the night their father returns to 2003, Dean lays down in bed and tucks himself in, like he’s been doing since he was four years old. His eyes close for business, but his brain won’t. His mind wants another replay:

_ So, Dean is back in Rocky’s with Pamela. _

_ Sam and Castiel try to make him see reason.  _

_ Sam remembers Poughkeepsie.  _

_ Once Dean realizes the whole situation is one of Michael’s ruses, they battle the archangel and lose spectacularly. That cocky sonofabitch starts crowing about reducing Dean to blood and bone and the idea to lock him on the inside sparks like a stick of dynamite. Sam and Dean double team the bastard and leave him in a freezer in an imaginary pub. _

_ “I got him,” Dean says. “My mind, my rules. I’m the cage.”  _

_ Castiel does his thing and that should have been the end of it.  _

_ The problem is, Michael is an adaptable asshole who learns from his first mistake. During the first possession, he’d held Dean captive and kept him drowning. As a result, Dean “squirmed” for freedom.  _

_ This time, Michael created an internal double lock. The first was a cute, Corona-fueled pipe dream of owning a bar. From there, Sam, Castiel and Dean were flung back into the dark empty of Dean’s consciousness. Still trapped. _

_ Castiel raised his hand and felt for another false memory that might be acting as a blockade. _

_ “Of course, we could just be stuck in Dean’s psyche for the rest of his life.”  _

_ Out of the mumblings, Dean’s disembodied voice murmured, “Why is he so fucking beautiful, even now? I mean, he’s like a goddamn lotus.” _

_ Sam cocks his head to listen. “When is that?” _

_ Dean’s mouth floods sour. He only allows himself this thought in moments of extreme weakness. It’s an unacceptable What If? _

_ “No!” _

_ Dean’s throat constricts as Castiel magicks them into a barren wasteland under an oppressive dust-grey sky. It’s as if the sun has expired. All around them, the unbearable stench of burning flesh thickens barely breathable air. _

_ A few yards ahead a man with a rag over his face watches a boy dig through a heap of ash and bone. The man is slight build but clad in hunter’s gear, and his bowed-legs give him away. _

_ The monster-hunting, bartending Dean seeks out the nearest weapon to cut down this abomination. A gnarled steel beam will do. When that dark Dean dies, Sam and Castiel will be free from Dean’s mind, and maybe he’ll never have this thought again.  _

_ “Dean, no!” Sam calls out and runs to intercept the attack.   _


	6. Yeah, Watch the World Die

_ Before they step off the porch, Sam leans up to give Dean a quick kiss. He pulls the rag over his face, twists the ring on his finger and says, “Green.”  _

_ Then he scampers off. _

_ The ocean and the sky blend in an endless, colorless haze. The air still stinks of ash and burning flesh. Dean covers his face, as well. Their rations are solid, but Sam gets antsy. Dean has to let him outside to stretch his legs. He’s like having a puppy that way.  _

_ The only dogs they’ve seen are wild, feral things.  _

_ “Be careful,” Dean shouts after his brother.  _

_ There isn’t anyone else, but there are animals. And old caution dies hard.  _

_ Sam likes to believe that someone is alive out there. Dean doesn’t argue, but they haven’t seen people in months.  _

_ Of course, Sam doesn’t know what Dean knows. Sam thinks they survived through a combination of luck and skill. He never needs to know about Dean’s deal with Michael or how Dean saved their lives by trading in the world.  _

_ Michael wore Dean to his big bang. In exchange, Dean gets Sam, just the way he wants him. This is the best Sammy. Young and fresh, back before he ever thought of running away and leaving Dean behind.  _

_ “Make us both kids again,” Dean had said. “None of the scars and calluses. As a matter of fact, clear his mind. Make him thirteen again.” _

_ In return, Michael received a free pass to blast the population to hell. Dean was sick of saving this thankless world anyway. So far, the archangel has stuck to his end of the deal. That’s why those three figures in the distance are such a shock. _

_ Sammy never notices. He goes on digging through the body-shaped piles of ash for his new past time. He likes to find jewelry, clean it and invent stories about the person it belonged to before the world died. _

_ Whoever these other survivors are, Dean will deal with them and keep Sammy safe. No matter what. So, when the middle one picks up a steel beam and charges, Dean trains his pistol on the maniac’s chest. _

_ “Dean, no!” The big one shouts and brings the other to the ground before Dean can shoot. _

_ But did he just say ‘Dean?’  _

_ There’s no way.  _

_ Sam and Dean - the adult versions, with Castiel. So much for Michael keeping his word. He let Dean’s future self shatter their harmonious life.  _

_ Pissed as he is, Dean tucks away his gun, holds up his hands for peace. He walks to meet them halfway. _

_ Sam is older and taller. Of course, yeah. He pretty much never stopped growing. They’ve been out here so long, Dean had almost forgotten. And he’d forgotten how ancient and mean he’d grown. Sam and Dean are here, at the world’s end. Why do those versions of them even still exist? Are they agents of Michael? _

_ “I’m sorry,” old Sam says with a hand on young Dean’s shoulder. “This isn’t real.” _


	7. Hungry and Hollow

Dean curls up like a fetus under his blanket. If only born again was a real thing, he could erase the filth from his mind. Start over and be a good person.

Busty Asian babes, even tentacles are surface lusts. Lies. In the recesses of his gut, Dean’s desire gets dark. Mostly he forbids himself those thoughts, those wants. Bacon and porn are acceptable. What Dean wants is not.

He’s so busy drowning himself in the usual suffocating self-hate that he hardly notices the mattress dip.

The bunker is overrun with people at the moment, but Dean doesn’t make eye contact with these women. No way one of them bold enough for this. He tenses and reaches under his pillow: not to hurt anybody, just scare her off.

As he rolls over, Sam straddles his chest and knocks the blade from his hand.

“The fuck?”

“Still can’t believe you tried to leave me, you prick.” Sam sinks to the bed beside Dean, shoulder to shoulder like a pair of sardines.

They both take a moment to recover from the blast of adrenaline. The last time they lay this close … well, it was a long damn time ago.

“I’m sorry, Sam. What else do you want me to say?”

“It still keeps me up, Dean. That you would do that.”

They whisper and fall silent in unison.

Sam doesn’t smell like alcohol, but his emotions have been wild lately. This visit is either pity affection or need. If it’s the first thing, Sam can sit on a plunger. But if the big guy wants to snuggle …

It’s miles away from Dean’s comfort zone. He rolls onto his side and doesn’t speak.

There’s nothing to say, not even when Sam drapes an arm over him.

If Michael wasn’t presently banging away inside Dean’s mind, rattling his skull, he’d believe this was another trick. Of course, there are still other nasties. It could be a djinn, an incubus, dressed up in a Sammy suit, nestled up against Dean’s ass. Not humping or any of the deviant things Dean would be doing. Just holding him. Spooning.

“Sammy?"

“You want me to stop?”

They both know if Dean wants Sam to stop, Dean would make Sam stop. Instead, Dean lays perfectly still between Sam’s arms, burning alive from the inside. Dean takes a deep breath, forces his muscles to relax.

“You asked if I remembered when we were kids,” Sam’s breath is warm on the back of Dean’s scalp. “How dad sent you away.”

Dean nods.

“‘Course I remember, Dean. How the hell could I forget that?”

Dean rolls over to face him. To stare into his glassy eyes - tired, maybe on the verge of another crying fit. There’s been a fuckload of crying around here lately. And now they’re cuddling. What the hell is next?

But Sam doesn’t cry; he talks.

“I haven’t forgotten. I let it go. Like Elsa, right?”

Dean chuckles and nods.

“And look, I know you think you’re doing me some kind of favor, staying out of the way, but would you please just take the helm here,” Sam says. “You know, I’m not… I’m tired of pretending to be a leader. All I’m doing is what I think you would do. It’s like flying blind without you in front of me.

“Sam.” So this is what he needs: comfort. Dean ignores the mild dip of disappointment and launches the ten-word pep talk. “If you weren’t a good leader, nobody would follow you.”

Sam is silent for a moment, processing. Dean can almost hear the gears whirring in his head. But Sam doesn’t argue. He pulls Dean closer and whispers into his ear, “So, end of the world, huh?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t want to hear you apologize,” Sam says. “You deserve a respite, even if it’s only in your mind.”

“Yeah, well, so long as you know that... that was Michael.”

“All Michael?”

“Of course, it was Michael.” Dean shoves back to look Sam in the eye. “What do you think I ... You think I would want something like that?”

Like Sam said, they are the guys who save the world. They don’t make deals to let it end. Not even in their wildest daydreams.

“I think you were pretty harsh with him. With yourself.”

“Yeah, well. He was an asshole.”

“He was you at seventeen, which, yeah. Definitely an asshole.”

“Whose side are you in here?”

“Yours. Always.” Sam’s smile is worth a little ribbing.

This sight has been far too rare lately.

They lay in each other’s arms. And what, really, is the difference between a vertical hug and a horizontal hug? Well, for one thing, they’re in the dim of Dean’s room. It would be so easy to kiss Sam. Harder not to. Dean takes a breath and starts to roll out of bed.

Sam holds him down. “Why do you always run from it?”

“I don’t know what you—”

“From me. You’re always running from me.”

“No.”

The running was Sam. Dean never had, and never would.

“Don’t. Okay?” The desperation was back in Sam’s voice and in his eyes. “Don’t leave me, okay, Dean? Just stay. Give us a chance to figure something out.”

Dean wipes back Sam’s hair and nods. “Where am I, Sammy?”

“You’re here, but--”

“That’s right. I’m right here.”

Sam clearly wants to argue further, but he drops it.

“All right.” Dean musters a smile. “Maybe we ought to get some sleep, yeah?”

“I thought maybe we could...”

“What?”

“You know.”

“I don’t know. Thought what, Sam?”

Sam bites his lip. Then, he asks, “How was it in your dream, before we showed up?”

“How should I know? I was with you.”

“But it’s your dream.”

“I told you, Michael --”

“Did we kiss?”

This isn’t happening. How can Sam be laying in Dean’s bed, asking this question?

“No.”  

There was never more than a peck between them in that fantasy. Sam was his little brother, for Christ sakes.

“Did you want to?”

Dean swallowed the thick, sick truth.

“I mean, eventually, we would have, right?” Sam supplies. “I would’ve made you show me those legendary Dean Winchester moves.”

“For what? There were no girls.”

Sam shrugs. “For posterity.”

“Posterity?”

“Yeah.” The grin is back and it’s brought the dimples. “What would have done to me, Dean? Alone, at the end of the world?”

“Sam, what are you—”

Sam closes the space between them, slides his minty tongue  into Dean’s mouth and shatters his resistance to dust. Dean couldn’t stop now if their mother, Castiel, and Sam’s whole army burst into the room.

They tear and grope at each other, hands rough and urgent, because they both can take it. Maybe they need the brutality or else the affection will become too much.  

Their frantic breath blends and swells until Sam breaks the kiss to produce a tube from his pocket. Dean reads the package and still asks, “What is this?”

“Lube.”

“Yeah, I know it’s lube, but why? Where is this coming from?”

“Dean…” Sam sighs. “Are you going to tell me you don’t want it?”

A small gust of air escapes Dean’s open mouth.

“Please,” Sam says. “I need this. I think we both do.”

What Dean needs is to scramble out of bed before he does something they both regret.

“Please.”

“Sammy?”

“You have any idea how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted you?”

Dean only knows it’s been this way with him forever. Since before he even knew what it means to have that warmth low in his belly whenever Sam smiles, or for Sam’s cries to ice his bones.

Dean helps Sam out of his shirt. He worships shoulders that weren’t always so broad, mapping them first with his hands, then with his mouth. He pulls off Sam’s sweatpants and takes his brother’s length in his hand, stroking him, studying Sam’s gasps. The lick of his parted lips.

He sucks, drinks in Sam’s moans, and swallows his essence as if it were angel’s grace. This would be enough. Dean is already in Heaven.

Sam turns onto his belly again, works the lube into his own hole while Dean watches, lubing and jerking himself.

“Jesus, Sammy.”

“Do you want me, Dean?”

“Always.”

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

Their voices are barely audible even in the dim silence of Dean’s room. When did he ever not want this?

Sam holds his cheeks apart and slips his middle finger inside. “Come on.”

“You ready?” Dean asks. “Should I--”

“I don’t want it easy.”

The masochist always gets his wish. Dean enters him in one savage thrust, forcing shouts from them both. If someone hears, they’ll send a rescue party.

“Sorry.”

Sam bites back a moan and clenches his ass. Dean squeezes his eyes shut at the increase in pressure.

“Oh, my god. You’re so fucking tight.”

He could shoot off now. Sam has already come. But Dean is still the older brother and Sam wants to see his moves. Dean doesn't ask whether Sam has done this before. Doesn’t want to know. All he needs to know is that Sam is below him, gripping the sheets and letting out a low groan.

“Come on.” Sam gasps. “Give it to me.”

“Wait a fucking second, porn star.”

And he is. Sam was born to bottom. Or maybe he just fits Dean like a glove, because once they adjust to each other, some demon in hell drops a flag on the starting line.

All of Dean’s anger, hurt, frustration, fear, regret and pain pools in the pit of him and he drives it all into Sam who receives it, redeems it. Makes Dean whole again as they fuck, raw and wild, like hunter and prey. Fire and famine. Only friend and mortal foe.

Dripping in sweat, Dean fucks Sam like he hates him. Like Sam is the only thing he’s ever loved. He puts Sam on his back, watches his eyes, kisses him. Dean folds Sam in half with his knees on the pillow beside his ears and still, he can’t drive deep enough.

“Come on, Dean. Give it to me. I need it. God, I need it.”

Dean drives into him, teeth bared, tears flowing, choking Sam’s for every time he left. And Sam more than bears the punishment. He curves into it. His body begs for more, even as he pleads, “Harder, Dean. Deeper. Make me yours. Make me your bitch.”

“Fuck, Sammy. God.”

Dean strokes Sam’s hair, yanks it, smooths it. He strangles his brother, then kisses his shoulder.

“Fuck, baby. So fucking… Oh god, I love you.”

It’s a union of profanity and praise as Dean shifts Sam again, onto his hands and knees. He grinds into his brother, chasing his release through all the guilt and shame and evil he’s ever battled. But not this. Not now.

This moment is the only pure thing Dean has ever lived. Gripping Sam’s hip with one hand and his throat with the other, Dean fills Sam and collapses on his back in violent spasms and animal growls.

“Holy fuck.”

Sam chuckles beneath him, laying flat and taking Dean down with him. Dean tries to pull out, but Sam reaches behind him and holds him in place.

“No,” Sam says. “You’re not going to go run away and pretend this didn’t happen.”

He grabs Dean’s phone from the bedside table and takes, of all things, a selfie.  

“You know I’m just going to delete that.”

“Don’t. Keep it and send it to me.”

This can only backfire. Too tired and satiated to argue, Dean rests his face in his brother’s hair and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Shut up.”

Dean chuckles and tries again to disengage. Sam’s eyes have slip closed, but he holds tight and mutters, “Don’t go.”


	8. Insane and Rising

With Sam’s heavy-ass head cutting off circulation to his arm, Dean’s mind leaps back a couple decades to the Summer of ‘95. About eight hundred miles northwest of Lebanon is a little town called Circle, Montana. Nothing there, man, but cows and nice girls: the kind that smile big and don’t put out.

Dean Winchester was a 17-year-old punk with fire in his balls and precious little in his head. Still, he never would have done what he did without his Sammy. He could blame the whole thing on that boy and that song.

The melody wasn’t much, but the award for most romantic lyrics ever written goes to Everclear for their instant classic, Santa Monica.

Riding with his dad, Dean had already heard a lot of great songs, but this one was different. It justified his love. It said that he wasn’t even the only sick pup with this kind of fantasy.

Dean would never be the one to burn down the world, but he would sure as hell take his brother and run when the blazing shitballs hit the fan. As a matter of fact, that’s why Dean ran. He’d had enough of flaming shit to last a lifetime.

Dean steered their stolen Ford Fiesta (AKA POS) and watched out of the corner of his eye as Sammy nodded along in the passenger seat. (It pained Dean but this car, unlike the Impala, was inconspicuous. Also, it had a CD player. He’d bought this record with his own money.) 

After the last chord, he tapped the radio button and waited for Sam’s verdict. 

“It’s good.”

Good? The song was timeless and brutally honest. It was also a huge rebellion for Dean who’d never liked anything other than his dad’s music before. 

Sam’s music taste had always been shit. Case in point, his favorite song on this album was the first, Electra. Nothing but a bunch of screaming and noise. But Dean let it play, just to watch Sam headbang, smiling and flinging all that hair around. Pleased to be pleasing Dean. 

For the first few lines of Heroin Girl, Dean made Sam cover his ears. That bit about the two pierced nipples and black tattoos sounded like one of their dad’s overnight flings and Sam didn’t need that image in his virgin head. 

It only took a moment for Dean’s vigilance to slip. He was busy taking an exit when the next song came on, prompting Sam’s question: “What is a whore?” 

Dean groaned. Their life was a shitshow of savagery and gore. His paltry attempts at preserving the last tendrils of Sam’s innocence failed a little more every day.

“It’s a… a woman who… you know, she has sex for money.” 

Sam nodded. “Like a prostitute, or a harlot.” 

Dean shrugged. Why even try? 

“How would you make someone feel like that?” 

It was a fair question, considering that the lead singer kept screaming:

“You make me feel like a whore.” 

Dean turned off the radio and asked, “Did you bring any books?”

Once Sam was entranced in his reading, Dean skipped ahead to Number 4. Again. Maybe the best song ever written. And the cool thing about a CD: you could listen over and over again without having to rewind. 

A couple of other songs had good lines: 

_We can do the things you want to do_

No one cares about us anyway

Be just the way we want to be

No one gives a fuck about us anyway. 

This time, Dean let Sam hear the “fuck.” Didn’t even turn it down. Sam gawked at him with wide eyes.

“Fuck it,” Dean said. 

If the kid was old enough to kill or be killed by a vampire. If he was big enough for beer (which their dad allowed) and for cigarettes (which Sam forswore after one coughing fit), Sam was mature enough to hear and say the word “fuck.” 

But only in Dean’s darkest, wettest dreams, was Sammy old enough to do it.

That first night, at Sam’s request, they laid back their seats in the car and snuggled under separate blankets, watching through the moon roof as stars streaked across the wide-open, western sky. When his eyelids were heavy enough to close, Dean rolled onto his side to admire the greater beauty beside him. 

Sam did the same and yawned. Dean touched his face. Just patted his cheek, really, smiling when Sam leaned into it. 

“You scared?” Dean whispered as if the stars might overhear. 

“No. I mean, only only…” Sam takes a breath to calm the stuttering. “What if dad if dad catches us?”

“He won’t.”

“But if he did…” 

“He’d kill me,” Dean said. “You’ll be fine.”

“How how how am I supposed to be fine?” Sam rolled to the window and mumbled. “Without you.”

“Never going to happen, Sammy.”

 

*******

 

**In My Own Weird Way**

 

Passing through Kennewick, Washington, Sam squeaked, “Dean?” 

The agonized grimace as he clutched his belly said the rest. On behalf of Sammy’s unpredictable and sensitive bowels, Dean took the next exit and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station/restaurant. Poor Sammy ran inside, doubled in half.

Dean chuckled to himself. What a little wreck.

Before he followed Sam inside, Dean counted their money, freshly-pilfered from their dad’s cash sock. Two grand would more than get them where they were going. Then Dean would get a job and send Sam to school. It was a damn good plan. 

Also good was the southern fried steak, smothered in gravy and laid out like a centerfold on a bed of mashed potatoes. Dean hummed around the first bite, shaking his grateful head as Sam nibbled his rabbit chow. 

“Seriously, though,” Sam said. “I don’t think I can take any more fast food.” 

“You got it, buddy.”

Real food was more expensive, but Sam was still growing and had always had a delicate constitution. Dean nodded and continued to make sweet tongue love to his food, only noticing once his plate was clear that Sam’s eyes kept wandering to the store portion of the shop.

“What is it?”

Sam’s eyes went wide for a second. Just as quickly, the light went out, he shook and lowered his head, bangs falling over his eyes. 

“Sam?” 

“Just… nothing.” He shrugged and sighed. “Saw something. It’s stupid.”

“Can I decide about that?” 

Sam was right. It was stupid. But his eyes were so big and round while he talked about it that there was no way to say no. John Winchester had that kind of resolve. Dean did not. 

“All right, kid.” 

“Really?” 

It was precisely the kind of thing their dad would call a frivolous waste of money. Fake magic. Jewelry. But Dean was not his father. He pulled a five from his wallet and laid it on the table next to Sam’s dish. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah, go get it, kid.” 

Sam scrambled to the store section while good king Dean sat back in his throne and grinned. He even helped himself to a piece of Sam’s lettuce, which he immediately spat out onto his plate.

Sam came back five minutes later without his treasure and wearing a distressed expression. He slinked into his seat and leaned forward, “Don’t look, but I think those I think we got we got hunters.” 

Dean’s nostrils flared hot and his hand flew to his weapon. His back was already to a wall, but he re-established the escape route he’d considered upon sitting down.

“Those guys keep keep keep looking at me.” 

Dean had to look. How else could he confirm Sam’s suspicion? 

Dean took a casual drink and surveyed the diner. Three tables behind Sam, a pair of greasy truckers whispered, their eyes so hard on Sam’s back that the kid would need a shower to wash off the ooze. One of them tipped his hat at Dean. The other blew a kiss. Then he let gritty brown chaw-spit dribble into a coffee mug. 

Dean had aged out of looking like a victim, but to that pair of road hogs, the Winchester boys must have looked like a strawberry-rhubarb pie. All this was happening because Sam had to have a trinket. If Sam had stayed put with Dean, he may not have caught their attention. 

There were probably cameras everywhere. Dean could get up and make a scene over lewd looks. Or, he could slap a twenty on the table, grab his brother by the arm and manhandle him out of the restaurant. He went with door number two and didn’t let go of Sam’s arm until he’d shoved him into the passenger seat. Sam’s new friends watched through the window as they peeled out of the parking lot. 

“Why are you are you mad at me?”

“Sam, shut up. I’m not.”

Since he was obviously lying, Dean drove in silence for as long as it took to get his pulse down to a mere sprint. 

“Were they hunters?” 

“No.” 

“Are they dangerous?” 

Absolutely dangerous. Just not typically their kind of dangerous. Dean may have been a seventeen-year-old retiree, but he had a responsibility to step up where chivalry was needed.

So, he set Sam to work in a role he’d mastered: bait. To be clear, Dean never would have let him stand alone, in the dark, on the side of the road if he didn’t know exactly how this would go down. 

One of those same fucking trucker leches pulled over to offer a ride. Sam delivered his line like a professional actor, “My brother’s put me out of the car. He’s such a dick.”

Two minutes later, when the creep was slumped over his steering wheel, bleeding out onto his jeans, Sam watched Dean ransack his belongings. 

“Why didn’t his teeth spring?” 

“I don’t know, Sam.” Dean panted, still jacked up on adrenaline from the kill. He pulled the guy’s wallet from his jacket pocket and emptied it. “Did you want to wait around for him to rip your neck out?” 

“Are you sure —”

“Are you questioning me, Sam?” 

When the traffic was light, Dean hopped into the dark with Sam in tow. They jogged the mile ahead to their Fiesta and took off. It wasn’t much of a score, but another small task toward cleansing the world.

The next order of business was to stop at a KMart, dragging Sam behind him, ignoring questions about the strange items in their cart. A few hours later, Sam walked into a shitty motel room, gawking around like it was Disneyland.

“Thought we didn’t have the money.” 

“You don’t worry about that,” Dean said, salting the doorway before he secured it. 

He’d been off guard the first night. As if leaving hunting would instantly make them safe. There was no way they’d spend another night on the side of the road where kid-loving fuckers were plentiful and more brazen than the other kind of monsters. 

Dean stuffed his blade under his pillow. Then, he pulled two items from his shopping bag and tossed them on the bed: a sundress and a pair of clippers. 

“Pick.” 

Sam blinked at the bed and back at Dean. “But you said they weren’t hunters.” 

“But there will be hunters after us. You can count on it. How do you think dad described us?” 

“Then why don’t you be a girl?” 

“Don’t look at it that way.” Dean held the dress in front of Sam. “You’ll still be a boy, in a dress.” 

The kid was basically a stick figure, but plenty pretty enough to pull it off.

“I’m not not wearing that.”

Sam shucked his t-shirt and flopped on the edge of the bed. When the first lock fell, Dean got a chill. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. Sam chewed his lip as Dean shaved him to the scalp.

When it was over, Dean sent Sam to shower. The kid ran a hand over his skull and obeyed without arguing. Dean kicked off his boots and jeans and tossed his weary body onto his bed. It was sure as hell more comfortable than sleeping in the car. And Sam was safe. 

When he was freshly washed, Sam sat in the middle of his bed, reading and absent-mindedly stroking his fresh buzz cut. 

“Looks good,” Dean said. 

Sam gave him the finger and dropped his hand in his lap.

There wasn’t a thing in the world that could make that kid less beautiful, but Dean couldn’t say that. Instead, he said, “Yeah, like a naked mole rat.” 

“You’re a jerk.” 

“Guilty as charged.” Dean smiled and watched Sam read until he drifted off to sleep. 

It must have been the middle of the night when the hand fell on his shoulder. Dean reached for his blade, and nearly gutted his little brother. Behind Sam, the room appeared empty.

“You were snoring.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Dean said. “Go back to sleep.” 

“It woke me up.” Sam pulled back Dean’s covers and crawled in.

“How is this going to help?”

Besides the stupidity of moving closer to the problem, Dean was a powder keg by day. We’re talking two, sometimes three jerks just to maintain equilibrium. In the night, all bets were off. If Sam slept this close, there was no telling what Dean’s body would do. Chances were, the kid would wake up covered in goo.

“I’ll just kick you when you start up again,” Sam said and snuggled against him.

It was the stuff of nightmares. Dean turned his back to his brother and growled, “Go to sleep.”

Sam rolled over, as well, so they lay back to back. Dean’s brain begged for mercy. The rest of him was busy reacting to Sam’s warmth, and proximity, and the fresh-washed smell of him. Dean shuddered all night with his knees pressed together, hands tucked under his pits. The beast inside him suffered and raged, but Dean refused to feed it thoughts or anything else.

He never touched Sam that night, but Dean was, at his core, the same kind of scourge as that trucker. Might as well kill himself next.

 

***

 

They passed Dale’s music store in Medford, Oregon around noon. Dean drove another mile before he hung a U-turn and headed back. 

It didn’t cost much to rent a practice room. Sam sat with his back against a while reading. The mood ring sparkling on his middle finger while Dean fulfilled a life-long dream.

“What’s green?” Dean asked, taking a break from his mortal struggle of man against the guitar.

Sam looked at his ring. “Relaxed and…”

“And?”

Sam shook his head. 

If he didn’t want to say, Dean wouldn’t push the point. He’d done himself a favor in buying that ring, so pretty between Sam’s long, slender fingers. 

Break over, Dean got back to work until he’d taught himself to play that riff, through buzzing fingertips and aching wrist.

He was born to play the guitar. Now, for the first time, Dean could prove it to himself. And maybe he could thank his dad for the dedication and laser focus. 

By the time the store closed, he’d practiced himself into a temporary case of carpal tunnel syndrome. Sam was asleep in the corner. The owner came to the door, tapped at his watch and invited them to return tomorrow. 

Dean thanked the guy, woke Sammy and got him back to their car.

Their dead car.

He turned the key ten times, the engine barely sputtered its refusal to start. Finally, Dean got out and looked under the hood. Could have just been the battery, but there was no diagnosing it without light and a car lift. 

“Shit.” 

He turned in place. Suburban. Nearly residential. They could steal a car, but something up the street gave Dean another idea. He roused Sam, carried both of their duffels and led his yawning, shuffling brother to an RV parked in a driveway. 

Without question, Sam shucked his t-shirt and jeans and climbed into the one mattress. It was that hot. 

But Dean kept his clothes on, every stitch, and the boots.

 

***

 

Sam saw the billboards outside of Clearlake, CA and started a steady drip of annoyance until Dean relented. Once they were walking between the throngs of people at the arts festival, Dean became Sam’s bodyguard, muscling his way through the masses to make space while Sam raised a hand to the next shiny thing.

“Magpie.” 

The sun shifted from behind a cloud, blasting blue light through a glass bottle and illuminating Sam’s smile like magic. 

Someone in the crowd called his name. Sam turned to look and his enchanted face morphed into a mask of terror. Dean glanced around to locate the trouble, grabbed Sam’s wrist and dragged him through the crowd. 

They bumped into a lady with an ice cream cone, inadvertently smashing it against her nose. Sam apologized and Dean yanked him. No time to be nice. Dean overturned a cart, leaving a wake of fruit and shouting people. He prayed and pulled Sam into a vendor’s tent under the apron of a tablecloth, if only for a moment to breathe and formulate a plan. 

His instincts were reacting to hunters. No doubt about it.

Sam mouthed the word, ‘sorry.’ Dean shook his head. Not Sam’s fault. Dean’s fault. His idea to run in the first place. Now, the unstoppable Winchester boys were facing the end of the line, inevitable as a firing squad. 

Sam turned up his palm. Dean squinted, unsure what he wanted until Sam slotted their fingers together, releasing liquid flame into Dean’s veins. Was this it? Were they giving up?

Their dad couldn't even be bothered to stop what he was doing. He'd put people on their trail. That was no surprise. But how many people? How good were they? And where were they now? 

That last question answered itself instantly.

“Sir, I’m looking for a couple of boys.” The voice was gruff, male, but not familiar.

The vendor answered in a much more languid, almost sleepy tone, “Why?” 

“I’m their father and they need to come home.” 

“Their father?” The vendor asked. “So, they’re brothers?” 

“That’s right. They’re brothers, and they’re dangerous. Did you see—”

“I didn’t see a thing,” the vendor said. “Now, are you going to make a purchase? If not, I do have customers.”

The sound of breaking glass was followed by receding footsteps and swearing.

A half hour passed without incident. When the coast felt clear, Dean stuck out his head. The vendor was with a customer, but he glanced down, shook his head as he continued explaining to an old lady how he created his work.

An hour later, the vendor slipped them a couple of sandwiches - shrink-wrapped, which was the only reason Dean let Sam eat. 

Finally, as night approached and the voices and music began to fade, the vendor started breaking down his tent. 

“I suppose it’s clear, but you boys better be careful.”

Dean crawled out first, looked around and then called Sam. He narrowed his eyes at the vendor. 

The man snickered. “You’re welcome, tough guy.” 

“Why’d you help us?” 

The man looked from Sam to Dean. “You really brothers?” 

Dean maintained his silence. Sam followed his lead. 

“I saw you two walking around earlier,” the man said. “Let’s just say, I sure as hell don’t look at my brother that way.” 

Dean blanched and didn’t dare look at Sam. With any luck, Sammy didn’t understand what the guy was accusing Dean of.

“It’s okay,” the vendor said.  “You’re safe here.”

 

***

 

**Heartspark Dollarsign**

 

The glassblower introduced himself as Jess. The least Dean could do was help load up his crap. Sam tried to be helpful but got caught up in admiring the art.

Jesse may, or may not have caught Dean staring again. 

“He’s a little young, isn’t he?” 

As much as Dean would have liked to respond with a blow, he said, “I know. I don’t… wouldn’t…”

“You love him?” 

“More than anything,” Dean said. “And I would never hurt him.”

“Listen, I was eleven and completely in love. Just make sure he’s ready.” 

Dean was sixteen his first time. The thought of it still burns him up with regret, (although he’d never admit that). Sam should have been his first. And that thought burned Dean with shame and want. 

Once the bed of the pickup truck was full, he shook Jesse’s hand and thanked him again.

“Listen, some of the artists are having a solstice gathering.”

“Sounds freaky.” 

Jesse laughed and shrugged. “Just an invitation, kid.” 

Dean ignored Sam’s nudging and asked for directions to the highway. 

In the car, the bitch came back, full-scale. Sam whined, “This has been the shittiest day.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Why can’t we do something fun for a change?” Sam went on, “If it’s going to suck, we might as well just go back to dad.” 

“Really? That’s how you feel?” Dean asked, heat rising in his neck. 

“At least nobody’s chasing us.” 

“Nobody’s chasing us, Sam? Is that right? Fucking wolf didn’t almost rip your throat out last week?” Dean’s chin quivered. “You want to go back to dad, I’ll drop you at the doorstep, but I can’t fucking watch that anymore.” 

Sam shut up and lowered his face.

When Jesse pointed out of his window to indicate the turn Dean would need to take for the highway, Dean turned on his blinkers. Then he sighed and followed the guy down the unlit road.

Dean’s spidey senses kicked him in the gut when Jesse’s truck turned onto a dirt road through the woods. One glance at Sam’s giddy smile kept Dean’s foot on the gas. But as he drove, he took mental inventory of every weapon concealed on his person and around the new (stolen) car.

“You got a knife on you?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Would you relax?”

“Do we know this guy? This could be the classic double cross. It looks like he’s on our side and then…”

Sam shook his head and looked out of the window. Sulky bitch couldn’t even be grateful.

Dean pulled the car alongside Jesse’s, among a dozen other beat-up jalopies parked in an overgrown field. 

Smiling, Sam lifted his shirt to reveal that he was, in fact, armed. Dean nodded and hopped out of the car. Jesse was fast approaching. Dean’s hand flew to the small of his back even as Jesse extended his. 

“Hey, glad you changed your mind.”

Dean shifted his stance, glanced at Sam and shook Jesse’s hand. 

A small village of tents surrounded a huddle of about twenty hippies gathered around a bonfire. If these people were hunters, they were damn well camouflaged: smelly women in flowy skirts and smellier guys in muslin pants.

Above it all, the sweet sweet aroma of hot dogs and s’mores. If anyone was going to ensnare Dean, that would be a good start. 

“You guys, this is Sam and Dean.” Jesse made a grand gesture. “Just saved their asses from the man.”

“That one’s too young,” a woman spoke up. “If someone’s looking for him, we don’t need that kind of trouble.”

Dean stepped in front of Sam. “He’s with me.

“I don’t doubt it, cowboy,” the woman said. “But when mama and daddy send the cops out to save their little boy from whatever you’re doing to him…”

Dean marched at her, but Jesse’s hand on his shoulder was a more immediate threat. Dean shook it off and was on the verge of ordering Sam back to the car.

“They’re all right, Gloria,” Jesse said. “What are we even doing out here when we can’t make space for young love? I believe in them. Hands?”

Every hand other than Gloria’s rose, and she shut the fuck up.

Still, Dean kept Sam at his hip, dutifully declining the first few offers to smoke. He couldn’t withstand the grub, though: three dogs and five s’mores while Sam nibbled a roasted potato and a vegetable kabob.

“How are you ever going to grow if that’s all you eat?” Dean asked, not for the first time. “You’re going to wind up one of these short, sawed-off guys.” 

Eventually, after sharing a joke or two with the guy on his right, Dean agreed to a single toke on a peace pipe. One puff, in goodwill. 

Not long after that, Dean was laying on his back, contemplating the distance between the stars. And how many of those might be inhabited. 

At some point, Sammy asked, “Is it all right?” 

Dean smiled. Of course, it was. Everything was all right. Everything was connected and beautiful and unfolding in perfect order.

The next time Dean opened his eyes, some dark-skinned chick was laying beside him. She might have even been Sam in a different form. Or a former lifetime. 

They chatted, the smallest talk, for a while and then Lydia asked, “What are you running away from?” 

No. If she was Sam, she’d know that. 

“Hey, where’s Sam?” Dean asked, lacking the conviction or concern to sit up.

He should care. He should get up and find Sam, but laying in the grass was so much easier. It was like that scene with Dorothy in the poppies. Dean laughed out loud. 

“He’s with Jesse,” Lydia said. “Asking like a zillion questions.” 

Dean laughed even louder. That was his Sammy. With the questions. Probably learning something Dean didn’t want him to know. Lydia laughed, too, although she couldn’t possibly have known what he was thinking. 

That’s why Dean loved girls so much. They’re simple. If they want you, they come lay beside you in the grass. Lydia was pretty, and sweet, and normal. Dean would be normal too, if he could only kiss that kind of girl and want her. 

Just because it had never happened before didn’t mean now couldn’t be the first time. Whether Dean wanted her or not, Lydia would open to him like a flower and he’d be allowed to take her. Oh, her parents might get pissed, but no one would come to cart him away to an asylum or call him a disgusting freak.

Dean turned on his side, waited for the vertigo to pass and leaned closer.

“Hey, listen, “Lydia said. “My mom and I have an extra tent, if you and Sam want some privacy tonight.”

The words bounced around Dean’s skull, crashed against the sides as Lydia stood and walked away. He sat up and ran his hands over his head. Was he seriously going to let these people think Sam was his boyfriend? 

There, across the fire, was his Sammy. Willowy and thin, moving to the music of a single guitar. Such a beautiful, graceful kid, but Sam should never dance in public. Dean sniffed, wiped his face, and waited until it felt safe to stand.

His head throbbed, but it was time to go.

As Dean approached, Sam’s smile grew wider, his moves more erratic, as if he was perfecting a chicken mating dance. He held out his arms to Dean, who pinned his hands at his side. 

“Look, we need to—” 

“Hey, Dean,” someone called from behind. “Sam said you play.” 

Dean turned and frowned at the outstretched instrument. Eager faces around the fire smiled and nodded. Sam poked Dean’s back and pressed himself to Dean’s arm. 

“Play that song. The one you love.” 

The one Dean loved. Everything was still foggy.

He sighed and took the guitar. Settled on a log. 

It took a few seconds for his fingers to cooperate, and his left wrist complained through the whole song, but as Dean began to play that opening riff, somebody hooted. Other guitars joined in. By the end of the tune, they were all singing and playing together.

Dean’s body was lit up like New Year’s as he handed the guitar back to its owner. Why couldn’t his life always have been like this? Why did it have to be cleaning guns and beheading monsters? 

On the ground beside him, Sam wrapped an arm around Dean’s leg and rested his head on his knee. Dean stroked his soft, spiky hair but then stopped when he caught sight of the adoring smiles around the fire. It was really time to leave, once Lydia stopped whispering to Sam. 

Oh, so, she was into skinny adolescents. Dean couldn’t even blame her. He was surprised more girls weren’t tripping over themselves to get closer to Sam. 

As Lydia walked away, Sam nodded to himself and then crawled into Dean’s lap - not side-saddle like he used to do when he was little. Sam straddled Dean’s waist, his arms rested on Dean’s shoulders, holding him tight and keeping him from falling off his stump. 

It was a trick. Had to be. Like when their dad had them pretend to be eagle scouts, or a couple of boys looking for their dog. Sam understood what these hippies expected of them. This was a hustle, only Dean wasn’t ready to play along.

Sam pulled Dean’s hands around his waist and smiled. Then he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I like it here.”

Words wouldn’t form, so Dean nodded. 

“Did you know Jesse used to be a lawyer?” Sam asked, breath warm on Dean’s neck. 

At the moment, Jesse’s life story was the least of Dean’s concern. He was springing a ferocious boner under his little brother’s ass, with a crowd of onlookers singing some soft song like the crab and chorus of critters around the pond in the Little Mermaid. 

Singing and smiling while Dean struggled not to come in his jeans. 

“Why don’t you kiss him, honey?” 

Dean didn’t see who said it.

Sam sat upright and bit his lip, eyes all wide and earnest. The flame crackled behind him, casting a warm halo around his face. Whatever Dean had smoked had worn off, but his head was light and empty. 

He gripped Sam’s sides and swallowed.

This couldn’t really be happening. It must be a dream or a spell. All this warmth, and the glow, and Sam so close, smiling down as he twisted his ring.

“You know, the green? It means relaxed,” he said. “And in love.”

 

*******

 

**Don’t Fall Down Now. You Will Never Get Up**

 

Dean squinted awake and covered his face with his arm. It wasn’t even 6AM, yet the sun blazed through all four windows of the car. He groaned, sat up and stretched his ailing neck.

Then he strolled over to the tent and whipped down the zipper. Sam was still asleep inside, but he rolled over and licked the corner of his mouth, peeping out of one open eye.

“Come on,” Dean said. “Let’s go.”

“What?” 

“Get up. Put on your pants, and let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Sam blinked a few times, sat up and shook his head. He hugged his knees, bunching up the sleeping bag. “Why did you leave?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” 

Sam had fallen asleep on his arm. It was so nice and so awful. Dean left the tent because it was after midnight, and there was no one in the tent but his little brother and his raging hormones. He left because Sam was not his boyfriend. Dean was simply fucked in the head. 

“Can we fucking get out of here?”

“I want to stay,” Sam said.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re saying.” 

Apparently, Sam had missed the part when Dean got so dazed and confused he didn’t even care, let alone know where Sam was. That was enough to make him want to get as far away from these people as possible.

“We should stay, Dean,” Sam whined. “You heard Jesse. They believe in us.”

“Would you shut up, get your shit and let’s go. Five minutes, in the car.”

“You’re such a jerk.” 

“And you’re a little bitch.” Dean kind of regretted it once the word was out. But it was also true. 

“Why don’t you beli--” 

“I believe in you, Sam. That’s it.” Dean couldn’t even say the same about himself. “Five minutes.” 

Sam flopped onto his belly and wiggled down until the sleeping bag covered his head.

Dean yanked it down and proceeded to peel his squirming, struggling brother out. Sam’s underwear came down an inch in the tussle, but that was an honest accident. It was also when Dean let him go and tossed Sam’s jeans at his head.

“If you’re not there in five minutes, the fucking hippies can keep you.” 

It was a bluff. They both knew it. 

Six minutes later, Sam dragged his feet through the mist toward another tent. Maybe he was asking for asylum. Would he rather go live with Jesse, the lawyer/glass blower than aimlessly wander, broke and scared with Dean? 

Was that a real question? 

Maybe Dean ought to go finish Jesse, too, so Sam wouldn’t have a choice.

He shook his head clear, started the car and ignored the ache in his chest. He could go out there and force the kid, but then he’d be just like their dad. Dean would pretend to leave for a day or two, hover outside of visibility range and give Sam some time to think about it. 

As he put the car into gear, Sam jogged up and slid into the passenger seat. 

“You were going to leave me?” Then under his breath. “You prick.” 

Dean turned out of the woods and drove until his stomach demanded he stop.

It would have been easier and cheaper to get McDs, but Dean chose a decent-looking, sit-down restaurant outside of Sacramento. It was a place where Sam could find slightly over-cooked vegetables. He cut the engine and Sam folded his arms, staring out of the window.

“Seriously? Fine. You want to starve? Be my guest.”

Dean slammed the door and burst into the restaurant. He wasn’t going to stop again until he felt like it. He grumbled through a piss and trudged back to his seat to order. 

One cursory glance out of the window and his heart punched into his ribs. Their car was surrounded by a familiar breed of low-life: plaid flannel, faded jeans, steel-toed hiking boots all kicked to shit.

Dean pulled his gun as he ran outside. 

“Hey!” 

Heads turned, but two of the hunters started rocking the car as if Sam was a prize inside of a gumball machine egg. Dean shot out the nearest asshole’s patella and he yelled as he fell. 

Dean ran like lightning. All but the gimpy one chased him between the sixteen wheelers.

Sam knew what to do. This was basic training all over again. Their dad might as well be there, shouting instructions into his ear.

Thirty seconds later, Sam appeared around one of the trucks. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and led the way towards the woods. They’d nearly reached the tree line when Sam tripped in the mud.

“Dean!”

 

*******

 

**Daddy’s Going Away**

 

The hunter with the ruined knee reminded them one last time that the only reason Dean was still alive was the man standing on the front porch of the cabin.

Another asshole escorted them out of the car, squeezing Dean’s neck and shoving him up the steps and to his father’s feet. Sam shuffled along behind him and helped Dean stand. 

Dean edged himself slightly in front of his brother and studied his father’s boots rather than face the rage in the old man’s eyes.

Their dad sent them inside and lingered on the porch to square up and debrief his mercenaries.

“Dean? Dean?” 

Sam was looking for some final pep talk or guidance. They could always try to slip back through a window, but at this point, it was better to take the punishment and regroup for a future escape. Dean reckoned with a beatdown for himself and few bookless weeks for Sam. Pain, but not unbearable. 

When their dad finally came inside, he ran his tongue looking over his teeth, like he was deciding which of them to devour first.

“So, this is what it takes for you to get a haircut.”

That’s all he said to Sam before dismissing him with a flick of the wrist.

Dean squared his shoulders and waited for the first blow. Instead, his dad tossed a duffel at him and said, “Five minutes.”

When Pastor Jim arrived, Dean was ready in the sense that he didn’t have anything to pack in the duffel. The precious little shit he owned was in a stolen, now abandoned, car outside of Sacramento.

His father and Pastor Jim exchanged the bare minimum greeting before the Jim gestured for Dean. 

Sam was still in that back room. Dean moved toward the door and his father blocked his way.

“I need to say goodbye.” 

“You need to get the fuck out of my face, boy.” 

Dean could fight, but how would that help? He’d get the shit kicked out of him and leave Sam with an even angrier version of their dad. He nodded and sniffed, but by some miracle, kept the tears off his cheeks. 

As he was following the Pastor out of the front door, Sam called out, “Don’t go, Dean. Please.”

Pastor Jim was right. It was better to get in the car and go while their father was holding Sam back. Why prolong the inevitable?


	9. I Don't Want to Be the Bad Guy

It’s placid out here. The ocean is welcoming him. None of those choppy, resistant waves making Dean rethink his mission. It’s easy sailing out on the wide and endless blue.

“This a good spot, captain?” the guy Dean chartered the boat gets a kick out of calling landlubbers things like captain and skipper.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he lucked out with this one: knowledgeable, capable and unscrupulous. No questions asked. It’s hard finding help like this these days.

The agreed upon fee is well below what’d you pay for a hit in Kansas City. Then again, there is the witness factor - or rather the fact that there won’t be any. They’re five hundred miles from the nearest land. An uncharted and undisputed portion of the ocean.

Cash has been paid, instructions doled out. The only thing between Dean and his eternal resting place is the expanding bubble in the center of his chest, a cement mixer dumping liquid dread into his body.

He takes a few deep breaths, like he’s preparing for a deep dive. In fact, he is. It’s totally possible that the Ma’lak Box fills with water. Of course, holding his breath isn’t going to help, but it’s a reflex to prepare for battle.

With one final breath, Dean lays back and nods for the guy to pull the lid shut. Dean resists the temptation to pray, in case Castiel is listening.

As the lid slides, he calls out, “Wait, wait wait!”

“I keep the money,” the guy demands and stops.

Funny. All those years Dean blamed Sam for running away, but never took responsibility for his own creation. It was Dean who taught Sam how to leave and never look back.

Dean raises his phone and texts that pic to Sam, the one of them together. He ignores all the missed calls and texts - already knows what Sam has to say.

With another deep breath, he nods once more. The lid blocks out the sun and traps in some air. Dean can feel the box tilt and the jolt of impact but he doesn’t even hear the splash. Nothing in, nothing out.

Dean pats his holster and huffs in a few breaths. He grips his firearm and waits. Once he hits the bottom, he’ll stick the barrel under his chin and end it, trapping Michael inside a corpse inside a Ma’lak box in the pit of the sea.

But there’s a sensation Dean hadn’t expected. A ringing. Vicious vertigo, like climbing a mountain too fast. Dean stretches his jaw to make his ears pop. He shifts to ease the discomfort in his bowels. Then he cries out. Broken ribs are a familiar discomfort, just one he hadn’t anticipated. But this is worse. Much worse. Punctured lung, maybe. Breathing is an agony.

He grunts and moves his arm to cradle his pained chest.

The rest is mercifully quick. One long wail as his limbs snap, skull implodes. The metal box is crushed by the ocean’s pressure, reducing Dean Winchester and his bothersome dreams to another speck of ocean trash.  



	10. EPILOGUE

Michael adjusts his cap in the mirror and chuckles to himself. These idiot Winchesters truly think he wouldn’t cover all of his bases.

One thing can be said for Dean: his is a complex mind with layers of fantasies to play with. The dream with the bar was a goofy little warm-up. The whole ‘Poughkeepsie’ moment had been a surprise, but Michael always expected “the boys” to figure it out. It’s certainly no skin off Michael’s stolen nose to leave a clone of himself trapped there to rattle at Dean’s walls.

Next, they’ll have to break through Dean’s little incest classic of trading Sam for the world (that earns another chuckle). Even if they manage to make young Dean give up that fantasy, the three Musketeers will slide deeper into Michael’s favorite: Death gives Dean instructions for some box that can supposedly contain an archangel. 

Dean Winchester plays the martyr, yada yada.

Most importantly, the fool believes he’s dead and leaves the steering of this beautiful vessel to the being for whom it was created. 

It doesn’t matter which dream holds Dean. Either one will do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Santa Monica - by Everclear  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MW6E_TNgCsY 
> 
> We can live beside the ocean  
> Leave the fire behind  
> Swim out past the breakers  
> Watch the world die


End file.
